h, and were married secretly, and were happy. But inevitable discovery
came. Miriam was thrown into a dungeon; and the unhappy Halil, loaded with
chains, was put on board a vessel, not as supercargo, but as prisoner;
with orders that he should be left in some distant country.

Meanwhile a dreadful pestilence fell upon Beyrout, and among the first
sufferers was an eighth little one, that had just learned to say "Baba!"
Selima was almost too astonished to be grieved. It seemed to her
impossible that death should come into her house, and meddle with the
fruits of so much suffering and love. When they came to take away the
little form which she had so often fondled, her indignation burst forth,
and she smote the first old woman who stretched out her rough
unsympathetic hand. But a shriek from her waiting-woman announced that
another victim was singled out; and the frantic mother rushed like a
tigress to defend the young that yet remained to her. But the enemy was
invisible; and (so the story goes) all her little ones drooped one by one
and died; so that on the seventh day Selima sat in her nursery gazing
about with stony eyes, and counting her losses upon her fingers--Iskender,
Selima, Wardy, Fadlallah, Hanna, Hennenah, Gereges--seven in all. Then she
remembered Halil, and her neglect of him; and, lifting up her voice, she
wept aloud; and, as the tears rushed fast and hot down her cheeks, her
heart yearned for her absent boy, and she would have parted with worlds to
have fallen upon his breast--would have given up her life in return for one
word of pardon and of love.

Fadlallah came in to her; and he was now very old and feeble. His back was
bent, and his transparent hand trembled as it clutched a cane. A white
beard surrounded a still whiter face; and as he came near his wife, he
held out his hand toward her with an uncertain gesture, as if the room had
been dark. This world appeared to him but dimly. "Selima," said he, "the
Giver hath taken. We, too, must go in our turn. Weep, my love; but weep
with moderation, for those little ones that have gone to sing in the
golden cages of Paradise. There is a heavier sorrow in my heart. Since my
first-born, Halil, departed for Bassora, I have only written once to learn
intelligence of him. He was then well, and had been received with favor by
his uncle. We have never done our duty by that boy." His wife replied, "Do
not reproach me; for I reproach myself more bitterly than thou cans